After a Fashion (9781441265135)

by Turano, Jen

  “Can you ever forgive me for convincing Harriet to go along with my plan to pose as my fiancée in order to secure the deal with you, Your Grace?”

  Ah, that was Oliver’s voice—such a wonderful voice, masculine but with just a touch of ruefulness mixed . . .

  “Call me Richard, and yes, of course I forgive you. If you hadn’t convinced my daughter to go along with your plan, Margaret and I would have never found her again.”

  “Harriet wasn’t comfortable with what we were doing, but I can be quite persuasive when I set my mind to something, and . . . well, my original plan seemed to snowball into something neither of us expected—that being complete and utter madness.”

  “I’ve recently come to the belief that you and Harriet were brought together because God was setting matters to rights,” Reverend Gilmore said softly.

  “You believe God wants me to be with Harriet?” Oliver asked.

  “As to that, I can’t say. I do believe the two of you came together so that Harriet could finally experience the love of a true family, and that her mother, father, and sister, could finally meet the lovely young lady they’d been denied for so very, very long.”

  She wasn’t certain, but she thought Oliver released a huff.

  What could that mean?

  Had he wanted Reverend Gilmore to confirm that they were meant to be together, because . . . It turned out she wasn’t just a hat girl, in fact . . . she was a lady, an honest-to-goodness lady who had a duke and a duchess for parents.

  Surely that would make it perfectly acceptable for her to be with Oliver, but . . . what if he didn’t want to be with her, what if . . .

  “Is she awake yet? It’s been hours and hours.”

  Was that Millie or Lucetta?”

  “No, but we’ve seen her twitching every once in a while, and the doctor did say, given that she took a blow to the head, that it might be more than a few hours before she comes to,” Oliver said.

  “She won’t like it if she wakes up and finds all of us staring at her.”

  Ah, that was Lucetta—the first one was Millie.

  “I’m not leaving.”

  Warmth flowed through her.

  That was her mother’s voice, a mother she’d thought was long dead, but a mother who’d never stopped loving her, even though she’d thought Harriet was dead.

  “Her original name was Julia?”

  Harriet’s ears perked up again.

  “It was, but I barely spent any time at all with her before Jane snatched her away,” Margaret said. “I still cannot believe the woman stole my child from me. She then decided I hadn’t suffered enough, so arranged for a dead infant, swaddled in my baby’s clothing, to be delivered to our country estate. Then, after waiting what she apparently felt was a sufficient amount of time—holding my hand and crying with me over my loss, no less—she then went off, took Harriet from the miserable person she’d paid to watch over my baby, and spirited her straight out of the country.”

  “I’m still not exactly clear why she arranged for a dead infant to be delivered to you,” Victoria said.

  “Because she knew that if your mother and I had any hope she was alive we would never rest until we found our little girl,” Richard said.

  Someone let out a small sob, the owner of that sob becoming clear when Margaret started speaking again. “Jane caused me more pain than I can even express, but the mere thought of all my darling girl must have suffered because of Jane’s evilness breaks my heart.”

  The pain in her mother’s voice had Harriet concentrating as hard as she could to open her eyes. Light blinded her for a moment, but then, a face swam into view, the face of her mother.

  Harriet licked dry lips, swallowed, and tried to smile, knowing she failed miserably when her mother released another sob.

  “I don’t want your heart to be broken . . . Mother,” she finally said, stumbling just a bit on the word Mother. “I never knew what I was missing, which makes this business of finding you all so much more delightful.”

  With tears pouring down her cheeks, her mother moved closer, and the next thing Harriet knew, she was lifted up and cradled in her mother’s arms, the scent of violets tickling her nose.

  How long she stayed there, Harriet couldn’t really say. She heard people leaving the room, most of them crying, but she couldn’t raise her head to offer them reassurances—she could only cling to the woman she’d never known, even as she sent a prayer to God, giving thanks for the gift He’d bestowed on her.

  This was what He’d given her for her birthday wish—her family.

  Her mother let out a muffled laugh before she eased Harriet out of her embrace and gazed into her face. “You look so much like I did twenty years ago.” She wiped tears that were still leaking out of Harriet’s eyes with her fingers. “I cannot believe you’ve been returned to me.”

  “I can’t believe it either,” her father said, looking at her over her mother’s shoulder.

  Her mother edged away from her, and then her father, a real live duke, took her place and strong arms wrapped around Harriet, something she’d longed to feel her entire life.

  It was little wonder she’d been drawn to the man when she first met him—he was her father, and somehow she’d known he was special before she even knew exactly who he was.

  She buried her head into his broad shoulder and allowed more tears to flow, tears she’d been holding back for years, but tears of joy this time, each tear healing the bit of her heart that had been damaged over her youth.

  After a few minutes or perhaps it was a few hours, her father eased back from her and smiled. “I’m going to buy you a pony.”

  “I might be a bit old for a pony.”

  “They bought me a pony when I was ten, even though I tried to convince them when I was six that I was old enough to ride.”

  Harriet looked up and the next thing she knew, her father had moved out of the way, which was probably fortunate since Victoria flung herself across the bed and grabbed Harriet in a hug that stole the very breath from her. “I’m so glad you’re not dead.”

  “You might want to loosen your hold, Tori, or she might go that way,” her mother said with a laugh.

  “Sorry,” Victoria muttered before she scooted off the bed and grinned. “We’re sisters. No wonder I adored you from the start.”

  “You loathed me on sight because you wanted Oliver.”

  “That was just a girlish infatuation. I’ve grown up since then.”

  Harriet returned the grin and then looked at her father. “I was the reason behind your overprotectiveness with Victoria, wasn’t I?”

  “When people suffer the loss of a child, it does tend to make them cling a little too tightly to the children, or in our case, child, who follows.”

  “But you can relax that attitude since you now have two children,” Victoria proclaimed with a nod. “And since it seems that Harriet has a propensity for getting into dramatic situations, well, she’ll need more looking after than I ever would.”

  “I’m twenty-two years old, Victoria. Believe me, I don’t need looking after.”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, she immediately regretted them. Her father was looking upset and her mother downright distressed.

  “Don’t listen to a word Harriet says,” Oliver exclaimed as he strode back into the room and smiled at her. “She, more than anyone I know, needs to be watched with an eagle eye.” He crossed the room and sat down in a chair next to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

  It took her a second to realize he’d spoken, being a bit distracted by the way his hair was oh so attractively rumpled and his jacket stretched across his broad shoulders. She couldn’t remember what he’d asked, but since he was looking at her expectantly she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

  “Do you remember when I first met you and your jacket was so poorly fitted?”

  “It wasn’t that long ago, Harriet, so yes, I clearly recall that incident.”

  H
arriet glanced at her mother. “He’d annoyed his tailor by not promoting the tailor’s son at one of his factories, so his tailor decided to get back at him by creating garments for Oliver that barely fit him.”

  Margaret looked at Oliver, then back at Harriet, and frowned. “I . . . see.”

  “You’ll be happy to know, Harriet, that Mr. Clay tailored this jacket and his son is now manager of that particular factory.”

  Warmth was immediate. “That’s wonderful, and . . . the mining situation?”

  “Is being handled capably by that brilliant gentleman I sent to West Virginia.”

  “You must be so relieved, but . . . tell me . . . what happened at the ball? Is society furious with you, and what happened to me? Was I shot and how long have I been lying here in bed . . . and am I still at Abigail’s house?”

  Oliver smiled. “That’s quite a few questions, Harriet, but let me see if I can answer them. Yes, you’re currently still at Abigail’s, and you’ve been lying in bed for about twelve hours. No, you weren’t shot, thank God, but you did get hit in the head with Jane’s pistol. To make matters worse, you hit your head again when you fell to the ground because no one was close enough to catch you.”

  Harriet lifted a hand to her head. “It doesn’t hurt.”

  Oliver smiled at her, his smile so filled with tenderness that she lost the ability to breathe. “I’m glad.”

  Margaret cleared her throat, drawing Harriet’s attention. She couldn’t help but notice that her mother seemed somewhat worried, and had no idea what was causing that worry.

  “And of course society isn’t angry with you,” Margaret said, smiling back at Harriet, although the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “No one heard the story Oliver told us later, about how you were only posing as his fiancée to secure the deal with your father, which I must admit I still don’t truly understand, but—” she drew in a deep breath—“for all New York society knows, you and Oliver were the victims of a most dastardly lady, and strangely enough, poor Abigail has been besieged with calling cards. All of the ladies delivering those cards have been extremely reluctant to leave the house until they get Abigail’s promise that she’ll tell you they desire your company.”

  It was very peculiar, her life at the moment, but it almost seemed to her as if she’d truly become acceptable, but . . . would that change matters between her and Oliver? Would he look at her differently now, and did she want him to look at her differently?

  She was still Harriet Peabody, had made hats for a living for years, but . . . did he see her in an improved light?

  She wasn’t quite certain she wanted that.

  She wanted him to love her, just as she’d realized she loved him. She certainly wasn’t comfortable with the idea that he might be more inclined to spend time with her now that her true parentage had been revealed.

  “What happened with Jane?” she heard herself ask when a strained silence settled over the room.

  Margaret’s eyes turned stormy. “She’s in jail, where she’ll linger for a very long time.”

  “And Silas Ruff?”

  Oliver released a sound of disgust. “He’s gone off to take the waters somewhere out west, and he’s, of course, completely unrepentant regarding what he did.”

  “What happened to Buford?”

  Oliver reached out and took her hand in his. “He took that bullet meant for you.”

  Tears immediately blinded her. “He died?”

  Squeezing her hand, Oliver leaned closer. “Good heavens, Harriet. No, he didn’t die. Buford’s entirely too tough to do something like that. He got nicked in the shoulder—the bullet didn’t even lodge in his body—and he’s been spending all of his time in Lucetta’s room, basking in the sound of her voice.” He grinned. “She’s taken to singing to him, and I must say, your friend could make a fortune if she ever gives up acting for the opera.”

  “She’s making a respectable living now—not that anyone would know it,” Harriet returned with a smile.

  “You’ll also be happy to know that Miss Birmingham, along with her dreadful parents, have returned to Chicago. I’m sure they’ll continue to be unpleasant, but at least we’ll never have to suffer their company again, especially since I informed Mr. Birmingham in no uncertain terms that our business association was definitely at an end. I couldn’t continue on with a person who’d deliberately caused you pain.”

  It was fortunate she was lying in bed, otherwise she would have been in serious danger of melting into a puddle on the floor.

  “That’s perfectly understandable,” she managed to mutter.

  “Forgive me for interrupting, but I must ask what your intentions are toward my daughter, Mr. Addleshaw.” Her mother’s words clarified the earlier worry Harriet had seen on her face.

  Her mother had believed her dead for far too many years, and Margaret was obviously afraid that, just when they’d found each other, Harriet was going to be lost to her once again.

  She deserved Harriet’s attention for the foreseeable future, and Harriet knew she needed to create a bond with the woman who’d given birth to her, no matter that she’d come to care for Oliver, had fallen in love with him, in fact.

  But . . . the reality was she barely knew the gentleman, and his life was in New York, while her family and their lives were firmly entrenched in England.

  She gave Oliver’s hand a squeeze before releasing it and then looked to her mother, a woman Harriet longed to know better and already loved more than she’d ever loved anyone in her life, including Oliver.

  “As I assume you’ve been told, Mother, Oliver and I were never truly engaged. We formed an alliance to suit our different needs, but I will admit that, strangely enough, we came to care for each other, or at least I came to care for him during the time we spent together.”

  “That’s so romantic,” Victoria said with a sigh.

  She was going to have to have long talks with this sister of hers, but now was hardly the time. She sent Victoria a rolling of the eyes and returned her attention to Margaret. “Oliver’s businesses, at least most of them, are here in America, and while I have developed a great deal of affection for him, my life, for the foreseeable future, is no longer in this country but in yours.”

  She felt Oliver stiffen beside her but couldn’t look him in the eye, instead keeping her gaze settled on her mother’s face, a face that was now looking hopeful.

  She summoned up a smile and felt her heart break just a bit. “I’m coming back to England with you, Mother. It’s past time I returned home.”

  23

  Harriet was leaving—and soon from what he’d been told.

  Throwing down the pen he’d been using to try and total up a stack of figures, Oliver realized that in the mood he was currently in, he’d get no business done. Rising from the chair, he whistled for Buford and waited as his dog got up somewhat gingerly from the patch of sun he’d been lounging in and moseyed over to Oliver’s side. Leaning down, he gave Buford a pat on the head before he straightened and walked out of his office, Buford dogging his every step.

  “Would you like me to call for the carriage?” Mr. Blodgett asked, materializing in the hallway on silent feet.

  Oliver shrugged. “I really have no place to go.”

  Mr. Blodgett cocked a brow. “Oh? You can’t think of any place your company might be appreciated?”

  “She’s made her decision, Mr. Blodgett, and I know why she made that decision. Her mother needs her just as Harriet needs her mother. I won’t step between them.”

  Mr. Blodgett opened his mouth, but then shut it when Archibald came strolling toward them. His grandfather stopped and smiled at Mr. Blodgett. “So is he going to see her? Have you called for the carriage?”

  “He’s going to let her go.”

  Archibald’s smile slid off his face. “You won’t find another like her, my boy.”

  “I’m perfectly aware of that.”

  “Then why are you letting her go?”

 
“She needs to be with her family. They live in England; I live here.”

  “That’s just geography, easily overcome.”

  “It’s geography that’s separated by an entire ocean.”

  Archibald eyed him for a moment. “Is making more money truly that important to you?”

  Oliver blinked, and instead of giving his grandfather the answer that immediately came to mind, he thought about it instead. “I don’t know.”

  “Come with me,” Archibald said before he headed for the door, paused, and looked over his shoulder. “Well?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see, and bring the mutt. He likes riding in the carriage.”

  For the first time in what felt like forever, Oliver felt a sense of peace. Perhaps it was because he was sitting smack in the middle of an old church, the pews empty except for Buford. Or, perhaps it was because his grandfather had spent the ride over to Reverend Gilmore’s church in relative silence, something that was unusual, but something that had given Oliver a feeling of hope, as if his grandfather had figured out all the answers and was simply biding his time to reveal them.

  Whatever the reason, Oliver wasn’t feeling quite as despondent as he’d been ever since Harriet had proclaimed a few days before she was going home, and not the home she’d lived in when he’d first made her acquaintance.

  “Ah, Oliver, I was hoping you’d pay me a visit soon.”

  Getting to his feet, Oliver walked over to greet Reverend Gilmore, who was entering the sanctuary with Archibald by his side. Holding out his hand, Oliver found himself smiling when, instead of taking his offered hand, the reverend pulled him into a strong hug.

  “Your grandfather tells me you’ve got a bit of a dilemma on your hands, son,” Reverend Gilmore said, stepping back.

  “I do, but I’m not exactly certain how my grandfather expects you to help.”

  Reverend Gilmore gestured to the pew. “Why don’t we sit down and discuss what’s on your mind.”

  Making his way back to the pew where he’d left Buford, Oliver took a seat, Reverend Gilmore and Archibald joining him a second later.